The beginning paragraph of a newly penned great American Novel

Through the arctic ice fog, a humanly, albeit ghastly figure in agitated frozen repose came into murky view. Upon closer inspection, evidence indicative of a recent bloody transgression of mythological proportions plays out before the interlopers; a classic tragedy of man’s inevitable descent into folly. Before those of the living lies a man of obvious good breeding, perhaps of royal lineage, his cold bluish body that of an aged, but fit specimen. Nearby rests a two-wheeled contraption loaded to the hilt with gear of the kind which men of adventure rely. Herein lays a man who fought bravely as his gnarled features indicate a mortal that did not give up without a supreme struggle. Clues litter the grisly scene that confirm beyond doubt that when the question of his mortality was at hand in this frozen hell, he took up the challenge with both gusto and admiration. Amid the circumstance of his death knell, this gentleman took a valiant, lofty, although enigmatic step to alert the living of what can only be construed as a highly personal and grave injustice by employing the frozen ground as his parchment, his detached thigh bone as a rudimentary quill, and his arterial blood as ink in a final act of insurrection by scribbling the word, TUSCOBIA.

Working on improving your vocabulary skills...

Improving and building upon your Cycling Lexicon

Source: Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary [1975 edition]

Hurt Tank /hert tank/ [ME to soak in a hurten pot]. To soak in a hurt tank. 1. Bereft of hope whilst cycling. Forsaken or damned, "catch 22". Sad or lonely whilst barely hanging on to the end of a heartless peleton. To feel or suffer great bodily and mental pain or distress during a DBD training ride. To be wounded with no sympathy from others. 2. To suffer want or need without anyone else caring while on a DBD training ride. 3. Mental and emotional torment without hope or chance of respite while riding a bicycle in a group. 4. Great discontent while in the act of laboring a bicycle amongst a group of malcontents and criminals. 5. Being in poor condition and a drain on the other cyclists. 6. To feel scorned by one's peers whilst riding a bicycle.
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Origin:
1740s France; ME peine punishment, torture, pain . Based on the scourage of Jean-Paul Marat [see photo above] (May 24, 1743 – July 13, 1793). Marat was a Swiss-born French physician, philosopher, political theorist, cyclist and scientist best known as a radical journalist, politician, and endurance cyclist from the French Revolution. He would take part in long sick enduro-rides on his steel single speed bicycle with a group of dubious characters that called themselves the DBD. After DBD training rides, Marat often sought the comfort of a cold bath to ease violent itchings due to a hideous skin disease long said to have been contracted years earlier, when he was forced to hide from his enemies in the Paris sewers. “Where is Marat?” “Oh, he’s soaking in the hurt tank again.” In the earlier part of the 20th century in England, a wounded, yet still able tail rider of a cycling group in a long remote cycling event was said to be “soaking in the hurt tank.”

Synonyms associated with "hurt-tank": 1–3. torture, misery, torment. PAIN, ACHE, AGONY, ANGUISH are terms for sensations causing suffering or torment. PAIN and ACHE usually refer to physical sensations whist on a bicycle (except heartache); AGONY and ANGUISH may be physical or mental involving a man just barely holding on to a unsympathetic group of bikers. PAIN in this context suggests a drawn out suffreing: a pain in one's knees. ACHE applies to a continuous pain, whether acute or dull: headache; muscular aches. AGONY implies a continuous, excruciating, scarcely endurable pain: in agony from a wound. ANGUISH suggests not only extreme and long-continued pain, but also a feeling of despair. 2. pang, twinge. 3. Think Trans-Iowa or Arrowhead 135

What were you doing at 4:07 a.m. on Sunday morning...I was getting dressed for a training ride that required me to leave my house at 4:30 a.m......

Quotations, musing, apologies, and recollections from Sunday’s eight hour DBD effort—

"Either Rich has Titanium collar bones or he has just been extremely lucky."
-Eki (when he was still human). Note: Hendricks was on road bike maneuvering terrain that tested the rest of the group, all of whom were on mountain bikes.

Re ‘Titanium quote’: “I am extremely lucky. Or perhaps . . . skill. You see Sir Eki, when one tips over as often as I, one must learn to fall properly . . . and wear a good helmet . . .”
-Hendricks

“He is riding deep within himself now; he is soaking in the hurt tank, but fear not for he will rally. I know him and he would not want us to slow down…He doesn't want us to wait for him...”
–Farrow on responding to queries of concern re Eki during the dark time….

“How many times can Hendricks tip over during one ride?”
-The group

Farrow to Hendricks, "Is that blood?"

“So just how is it that Farrow, after bringing only ’simulated food’ puffs for sustenance, was able to find Mallory's cache hidden years ago?"
-Hendricks

"Steady the lads, one finger of whiskey to each of them..." -Note from George Mallory in a canvas bag containing a flask of aged whiskey.

"What's with Buffington? Apparently 8hrs is not enough . . . just who is this guy . . . really?"
-Hendricks

“Itz 5:04 a.m. this is an outrage…I say we leave him.”
-Farrow on Eki’s tardiness

"I don't know what kind of watches you guys are using."
-Eki addressing false allegations that he was late

"Jason, have you eaten ANYTHING?"
-Eki accusing Jason of being alien

“Coprophagy.”
-Buffington on working through a revolutionary solution for dealing with carrying enough food on long remote enduro-rides.

“Can we learn to do that?”
-Farrow, intrigued by the possibilities of coprophagy

“ I already do that…”
-Eki on the efficacy of human coprophagy during long endurance rides.

"You should paint some nipples on that diaper?"
-Buffington addressing Farrow's 'man-diaper.'

"I wish I had like a 34 x 60 on this thing."
-Eki commenting that his gear ratio was too difficult

Farrow: "Is that a MAN in that tree?" Eki: "No, it's the top of the tree." Farrow: "God, I need to get glasses."

"Lost in Woodland"
Eki, finding himself on Pleasant View Rd, just off Jean Duluth, after 3 1/2 hours of riding.

"Does that shot glass say 'Dubai' on it?"
-Buffington questioning Mallory's choice of shot glass while the group enjoyed a finger of the good stuff on trail.

“Hey there’s a moose! I mean there was a moose, they must have moved it…it was here last summer, it was a fake moose, but I swear there was a moose here”
-Farrow

“Help me help you.”
-Eki trying to work with Farrow’s dementia

Looking back on Jean-Duluth and catching a momentary glimpse of Farrow's bike perpendicular to the direction traveling. Buffington

How many times thinking/saying "Rich has got to be really hurting now", and glancing back to see how far back he was, and seeing him right on my wheel.

"Look wolf tracks. And there's a wolf kill. And where a wolf treed a skunk."
-Farrow

Dearest Mallory:

First of all, I'm alive! I made it home and into the hurt tank where I soaked for upwards of an hour. My wife had to make me a sandwich, hot cocoa and listen to my pleas and cries. That ride was soooo DBD for me. While the others effortlessly spun through the miles, I toiled. My God, I was hurtin'! The first words out of my mouth to Amy, when she came down to the basement were..."I'm in trouble!" Yes, I let the rubber ducky float around in the hurt tank with me.

As I try to assess the damage and why it happened I can only surmise that I went into the ride in a dehydrated state, which only got worse and worse. I bet I drank a gallon of fluids when I got home and didn't take my first pee until about 6:00 p.m. I couldn't move! After I rolled out of the hurt tank I made my way to the couch where I proceed to fall into a slumber that lasted nearly 3 hours.

Funny how the HURT gods seem to pick one of us from time to time and they then direct all the pain they can muster onto that one man. It was my turn. In hind sight I wish the men would have just left me out there. I deserved to ride alone, left behind, forgotten. Jason failed his test miserably by coming back to drag me up to the group time and time again. If he truly was DBD he would have left me, like FARROW did...

Overall, it is with great shame that everyone had to see that. Again, please accept my deepest apologies.

Eki

Like being inside of one of 'em glass globe thingies with the snow....

The last three nights out on me Gunnar 29er have been magical...what with the snow and all...sure am thankful to be livin' in Duluth Minnesota...Duluth--best kept secret in the whole world, but don't tell anybody!!! Big ride planned for Sunday and then taper taper taper for the big dance on December 19th...The Tuscobia Race...down in Wisconsin near Rice lake...

A rare find: a secret correspondence revealed...more to come.

Dearest Mallory:

As I sit here encumbered within the confines of society's expectations, I think back to the small victories and shameful tragedies that were Sunday's DBD ride. My heart soars as I reminisce about the endless miles of gravel, the countless attacks on the Fox Farm rollers designed to test Farrow and Hendricks’ resolve, and the penultimate full-on sprint to the top of Hawk's Ridge with Rich offering a concession speech at the top as Farrow faltered and wept the tears of a forlorn clown. Yet, the ride was not without its melancholic moments for I deeply regret not offering Kershaw my revolver in his time of crisis.

So, with that being said, I raise my glass and may I suggest another finger of rum for the good men, for it is them that drives me on and puts me deep into the hurt tank as we chase the folly of our dreams.

Humbly your servant,

Sir Eki - Lifetime DBD member


Bully Eki bully!!!

Well done. Hendricks has potential. Farrow continues to disappoint. Kershaw without his revolver? Any hope for the Buffington youth? These are troubling times in which we now live. Steady the men...I shall consider the extra finger of rum...

Carry on,
GM

A rare glimpse into the internal workings of the DBD...

Finally after years of covert investigative work including around the clock surveillance of the highly exclusive Kitchi Gammi Club, located in Old Duluth, Bob Woodward, the noted journalist of Watergate fame, has obtained a recent document that sheds light onto the internal workings of the highly secretive DBD Honor Board. Woodward reportedly bribed an unscrupulous Kitchi Gammi Man-servant who covertly managed to pocket one of several copies of a letter from a "Hendricks" that presumably was part of an agenda distributed to the Honor Board at a recent DBD meeting held at the Club.

Dear Sir Earnest:

I thought you may like to hear of our most recent expedition to the vast reaches of the Pequaywan Lake area and beyond. All men in attendance had on their person’s the required items including the British .455 Webley Revolver. I am happy to report that none were required to be unholstered.

Temperature a cool -5C, winds calm as we bravely depart our vessel, the William A Irvin at 06:00. To my surprise and joy, we were not two, but three riders . . . A certain John Hatcher rose early to help us reach our goal.

This expeditionary force was thus made up of: Hatcher, Sir Ek (of Scandinavian descent) and your humble friend and author Hendricks (of Dutch accessory). Mallory was there to offer his regards. Our spirits soared as he ordered an extra finger of rum for our small force.

Our route through well known areas somewhat uneventful, save the chance meeting of another explorer. To our surprise and dismay, this comrade of the morning chose to not acknowledge our presence and continue alone (what's up with that anyway at 6:15 in the morning??). Eki needed to be momentarily restrained, but he quickly regained his composure.

By the time we reached the top of the Lester River summit, the cold had rendered all external water supplies unusable, only those worn on our backs remained accessible. Some had to place these frozen supplies and sustenance next to the body, and only hope for a thaw.

As the sun began its journey . . . our route calm and beautiful . . . we rode easily as one, discussing history, thoughts and dreams. We wondered aloud of our missing mates . . . were they as ill as claimed, as otherwise busy as declared . . . or were they even in a warm place, beverage in hand in the land of Iron, Or were they indeed on their own "secret expeditions?"

As we turned to the East, somewhere North of Pequaywan lake, we were met by a strange vehicle . . . it appeared to be of somewhat modern design, constructed of metal, yet conveyed by 14 sled dogs. What a strange site it was . . . Suddenly, the weather turned against us as a thick, pea soup fog appeared . . . our vision limited to at best 15 meters . . . off we continued, unhindered by this turn of events.

Moving along familiar routes, most recently travelled on 26 September, we arrived Clover Valley where our good friend and fellow rider Hatcher was forced by prior commitments to leave us. Brave soul he . . . at the point of departure he had achieved some 67 miles, with resources rendered nearly unusable by the cold . . . and still with 23 solo miles to travel!

Here the Scandinavian and Dutchman continued Easterly, toward the Lake at high speed, searching for the warmth and comfort of civilization. A hearty "thank You" to Miss Sarah who supplied us with the life sustaining coffee we so desired.

The effects of the drug immediately apparent as we easily climbed the Homestead apex, only to be confronted by a short, yet steep climb up "Hegberg . . " Shortly after, we achieved 45 mph on a steep, gravel descent . . .

Back to the Lake we headed, rolling uneventfully along the shore only to be dared by one final challenge: the Seven Bridges and Hawk Ridge ascent. It is here where our Dutchman, who led his two letter surnamed companion up each and every preceding challenge, learned "It is not he who leads the first lap . . . it is he who leads the last lap that wins . . ." It is assumed that were it not for the help of Sir Ek, that Hendricks would still be gasping for air as he trundled up this final summit. A lesson well taught and learned . . .

Shortly after our route complete, expedition over . . . we concluded it was indeed a great day . . . Total journey, well over 100 miles . . .
Respectfully Yours,
Hendricks

I am a flawed individual with many eccentricities, I have my detractors, there are those who find me onerous. Yet it can't be said I am not willing to

...read a book of any sort based on a recommendation from someone I trust or love or both love and trust...So when my nine year offspring (of whom I both love and trust) told me that I simply had to read Diary of a Wimpy Kid...I said "Okay" and I was not disappointed...It is hilarious!!! Seriously, no not seriously, but for anyone that has survived "junior high" this is a must read....I was weeping with joy. The little dramas of adolescence brought back both fond and embarrassing memories as I cruised through the pages last night. You possess a cold heart, if the cartoons do not make you laugh out loud...Note: Ingestion of a few bottles of fresh Bell's Kalamazoo Stout only had the effect of intensifying my glee....